and  other  poems  by 
WiiUam.h  Davits 


Designs  by  WilliamNicbolsan 


alifornia 
^ional 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Hour  of  Magic 


The 

HOUR  of  MAGIC 

and  other  Poems  by 
W.  H.  Davies 


Decorated  by 
William  Nicholson 


Harper  &  Brothers,  Publishers 

New  York  &  London 

Mcmxxii 


Made  and  printed  in  Great  Britain 
by  George  W.  Jones,  12-14  Cough  Square,  London,  E.C.4. 


Contents 


THE  HOUR  OF  MAGIC  1 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  2 

IMPUDENCE  4 

WASTED  HOURS  5 

TWO  WOMEN  6 

PASTURES  8 

HER  MERRIMENT  9 

JOY  10 

LAMORNA  COVE  12 

WILD  OATS  13 

THE  GRIEF  OF  OTHERS  14 

THE  PORTRAIT  16 

A  THOUGHT  18 

OUR  SUSSEX  DOWNS  20 

TELLING  FORTUNES  21 

THE  COLLAR  22 

TO  A  FOOL  24 

STRENGTH  25 

TO  BACCHUS  26 

A  WOMAN'S  HISTORY  28 

THE  TRANCE  30 


486508 

ENGLISH 


To  Elizabeth  Drury,  with  our  love 
W.D.— W.N. 


The  Hour  of  Magic 


THIS  is  the  hour  of  magic,  when  the  Moon 
With  her  bright  wand  has  charmed  the  tallest  tree 
To  stand  stone  still  with  all  his  million  leaves ! 

I  feel  around  me  things  I  cannot  see; 
I  hold  my  breath,  as  Nature  holds  her  own. 

And  do  the  mice  and  birds,  the  horse  and  cow, 
Sleepless  in  this  deep  silence,  so  intense, 

Believe  a  miracle  has  happened  now, 
And  wait  to  hear  a  sound  they'll  recognise, 
To  prove  they  still  have  life  with  earthly  ties? 


The  Beautiful 


'"T^HREE  things  there  are  more  beautiful 
-1-  Than  any  man  could  wish  to  see: 
The  first,  it  is  a  full-rigged  ship 

Sailing  with  all  her  sails  set  free; 
The  second,  when  the  wind  and  sun 

Are  playing  in  a  field  of  corn ; 
The  third,  a  woman,  young  and  fair, 

Showing  her  child  before  it  is  born. 


Impudence 


ONE  morning,  when  the  world  was  gray  and  cold, 
And  every  face  looked  dull  and  full  of  care 
There  passed  me,  purring  clouds  of  silver  breath, 
A  lovely  maiden,  with  a  jaunty  air. 

The  red  carnations  flamed  in  both  her  cheeks, 

Her  teeth  were  white  and  shown ;  while  either  eye 

Shone  like  a  little  pool  on  Christchurch  Hill 
When  it  has  stolen  more  than  half  the  sky. 

And  when  I  saw  such  beauty,  young  and  fresh, 

So  proud,  although  the  day  was  gray  and  cold, 
"Who  ever  saw,"  I  laughed,  and  stared  amazed, 
"  Such  impudence  before  in  this  old  world  ! " 


Wasted  Hours 

HOW  many  buds  in  this  warm  light 
Have  burst  out  laughing  into  leaves  ! 
And  shall  a  day  like  this  be  gone 
Before  I  seek  the  wood  that  holds 
The  richest  music  known  ? 

Too  many  times  have  nightingales 
Wasted  their  passion  on  my  sleep, 

And  brought  repentance  soon ; 
But  this  one  night  I'll  seek  the  woods, 

The  Nightingale  and  Moon. 


Two  Women 

The  Mother 

*  I  ^HE  midwife  nearly  drowned  my  son, 
JL  And  beat  him  hard,  before  he'd  give 
That  cry  a  mother  longs  to  hear 

To  prove  her  precious  babe  will  live. 

The  Wife 

I  WISH  that  she  had  drowned  him  quite, 
Or  beat  your  precious  babe  to  death ; 
Since  he  has  grown  so  fierce  and  strong 
He'll  beat  me  out  of  my  last  breath. 

Your  precious  babe  is  now  a  man, 

But,  mother,  he's  not  worth  the  skin — 

As  husband,  father,  or  a  son — 
That  he  was  made  for  living  in. 


Pastures 

THAT  grass  is  tender,  soft  and  sweet, 
And  well  you  young  lambs  know't: 
I  know  a  pasture  twice  as  sweet, 
Although  I  may  not  show't; 
Where  my  five  fingers  go  each  night 

To  nibble,  like  you  sheep, 
All  over  my  love's  breast,  and  there 
Lie  down  to  sleep. 


Her  Merriment 

"VVTHEN  I  had  met  my  love  the  twentieth  time, 
W  She  put  me  to  confession  day  and  night : 
Did  I  like  woman  far  above  all  things, 

Or  did  the  songs  I  make  give  more  delight? 

"Listen,  you  sweeter  flower  than  ever  smiled 
In  April's  sunny  face,"  I  said  at  last — 

"The  voices  and  the  legs  of  birds  and  women 

Have  always  pleased  my  ears  and  eyes  the  most." 

And  saying  this,  I  watched  my  love  with  care, 
Not  knowing  would  my  words  offend  or  please: 

But  laughing  gayly,  her  delighted  breasts 
Sent  ripples  down  her  body  to  her  knees. 


Joy 


FOR  souls,  who  think  that  joy  is  bought 
With  pelf; 
The  bait  that  captures  joy  is  joy 

Itself. 
My  joy  it  came  mysteriously 

At  birth; 
I  give  it  to,  not  take  it  from 

The  earth. 
Have  pity  on  my  enemy: 

Again, 
And  yet  again,  my  triumph  gives 

Him  pain. 
Come,  Death,  give  me  life's  perfect  end; 

Take  me 
In  my  sleep,  Oh  Death,  and  do  not 

Wake  me. 


10 


Lamorna  Cove 

I  SEE  at  last  our  great  Lamorna  Cove, 
Which,  danced  on  by  ten  thousand  silver  feet, 
Has  all  those  waves  that  run  like  little  lambs, 
To  draw  the  milk  from  many  a  rocky  teat, 
Spilt  in  white  gallons  all  along  the  shore. 
Who  ever  saw  more  beauty  under  the  sun  ? 
I  look  and  look,  and  say,  "No  wonder  here's 
A  light  I  never  saw  on  earth  before — 
Two  heavens  are  shining  here  instead  of  one." 
And,  like  the  wild  gulls  flashing  in  my  sight, 
Each  furious  thought  that's  driving  through  my  brain 
Screams  in  its  fresh  young  wonder  and  delight. 

12 


Wild  Oats 

HOW  slowly  moves  the  snail,  that  builds 
A  silver  street  so  fine  and  long  : 
I  move  as  slowly,  but  I  leave 
Behind  me  not  one  breath  of  song. 
Dumb  as  a  moulting  bird  am  I, 
I  go  to  bed  when  children  do, 
My  ale  but  two  half-pints  a  day, 
And  to  one  woman  I  am  true. 
Oh  !  what  a  life,  how  flat  and  stale — 
How  dull,  monotonous  and  slow! 
Can  I  sing  songs  in  times  so  dead — 
Are  there  no  more  wild  oats  to  sow  ? 


13 


The  Grief  of  Others 

ONCE  more  I  see  the  happy  young 
Broken  by  grief  and  pain  ; 
That  tears  have  made  like  earth's  red  worms 

Turned  white  by  days  of  rain. 
Once  more  I  see  the  new-made  wife 

From  her  dead  husband  torn ; 
When  down  she  sits  and  weeps,  and  laughs, 

And  rocks  her  babe  unborn. 
And  when  I  see  a  hearse  that  takes 

A  coffin  through  the  town, 
Or  pass  the  quiet  house  of  death, 

That  has  its  blinds  drawn  down — 
Such  pity  moves  me  for  the  dear 

Ones  left  to  mourn  behind, 
That  I  am  glad  my  loves  are  dreams 

Made  purely  of  the  mind: 
That  take  expression  for  their  grave, 

When  they  have  served  their  hour; 
And  I  create  a  younger  brood 

To  charm  me  with  new  power. 

14 


The  Portrait 

SHE  sends  her  portrait,  as  a  swallow, 
To  show  that  her  sweet  spring  will  follow; 
Until  she  comes  herself,  to  share 
With  me  a  pillow  and  her  hair. 
To  this  fine  portrait  of  my  Dear, 
With  nothing  but  dead  matter  near, 
I  whisper  words  of  love,  and  kiss 
The  cardboard  dewy  with  my  bliss. 
This  is  her  hair,  which  I  will  bind 
Around  my  knuckles,  when  inclined 
To  bandage  them  in  skeins  of  gold. 
These  are  her  lips,  in  paper  mould, 
Which  when  I  touch  appear  to  move, 
As  conscious  of  my  burning  love. 
These  are  her  eyes,  now  hard  and  set, 
And  opened  wide,  which  Love  will  shut. 
Lord,  is  my  kiss  too  poor  and  weak 
To  make  this  portrait  move  and  speak, 
And  close  these  eyes  in  fear  of  this 
Strong  love  of  mine,  half  bite,  half  kiss! 
This  kiss  that  would  in  fierce  delight 

16 


Burn  on  her  soft  white  flesh,  and  bite 
Like  a  black  fly  when,  stiff  and  old, 
He's  blind,  and  dying  of  the  cold ! 
Now,  when  I  rest  awhile  from  kissing, 
My  room  looks  lonely  with  her  missing. 
Now  empty  seems  that  chair,  where  she 
Could  sit  this  night  and  smile  to  see 
Her  own  light  fingers  work  with  grace 
Straight  cotton  into  cobweb  lace; 
Or  when  they  rub  that  small  gold  band 
That  makes  her  mine,  on  her  left  hand. 
O  that  my  love  were  sitting  there, 
Before  me,  in  that  empty  chair; 
Rocking  the  love-light,  where  it  lies 
Cradled  for  joy  in  her  two  eyes. 
Till  in  the  flesh  she  comes  to  kiss, 
Be  happy,  man,  that  she  sends  this — 
Her  own  dear  portrait,  as  a  swallow, 
To  show  that  her  sweet  spring  will  follow. 

17 


A  Thought 

WHEN  I  look  into  a  glass, 
Myself  s  my  only  care ; 
But  I  look  into  a  pool 

For  all  the  wonders  there. 

When  I  look  into  a  glass, 

I  see  a  fool : 
But  I  see  a  wise  man 

When  I  look  into  a  pool. 


18 


Our  Sussex  Downs 

MY  youth  is  gone — my  youth  that  laughed 
and  yawned 

In  one  sweet  breath,  and  will  not  come  again ; 
And  crumbs  of  wonder  are  my  scanty  fare, 
Snatched  from  the  beauty  on  a  hill  or  plain. 
So,  as  I  look,  I  wonder  if  the  land 
Has  breathed  those  shadows  in  the  waters  blue ! 
From  all  first  sounds  I  half  expect  to  hear, 
Not  only  echoes,  but  their  echoes  too. 
But  when  I  see — the  first  time  in  my  life — 
Our  Sussex  Downs,  so  mighty,  strong  and  bare 
That  many  a  wood  of  fifteen  hundred  trees 
Seems  but  a  handful  scattered  lightly  there — 
'What  a  great  hour,"  think  I,  "halfway  'twixt  Death 
And  Youth  that  laughs  and  yawns  in  one  short 
breath." 

20 


Telling  Fortunes 

YOU'LL  have  a  son,"  the  old  man  said — 
"And  then  a  daughter  fair  to  meet 
As  any  summer  nights  that  dance 

Upon  a  thousand  silver  feet." 
"  You  dear  old  man,  now  can  you  tell 
If  my  fair  daughter  '11  marry  well  ?" 
The  old  man  winked  his  eye  and  said, 

"Well,  knowing  men  for  what  they  are, 
She'll  break  their  hearts,  because  she'll  not 

Be  half  as  good  as  she  is  fair." 
The  new-made  wife  was  full  of  pain, 
And  raised  her  head  and  hoped  again. 
"  And  will  my  son  be  fine  and  smart 
And  win  a  noble  lady's  heart?" 
The  old  man  winked  his  other  eye — 
"  Well,  knowing  women  as  we  do, 

The  kind  of  man  they  most  prefer, 
He'll  break  their  hearts,  because  he'll  be 
A  fool,  a  coxcomb,  and  a  cur." 

21 


The  Collar 

TVTHO  taught  fair  Cleopatra  how  to  bring 
VvMark  Antony  to  her  knees — the  touch  of  love, 
As  soft  as  velvet,  that  could  stroke  the  wing 
Of  a  butterfly  and  take  no  powder  off; 
The  gentle  purr  that  made  eternal  Rome, 
With  all  its  marble,  melt  in  that  sweet  sound, 
And  vanish  like  the  mist,  when  it  has  come 
Into  a  man's  full  height  above  the  ground  ? 
When  I  see  how  a  cat  has,  even  now, 
With  its  own  body  curled  and  crouching  low, 
Made  a  large,  heavy  collar,  soft  and  warm, 
For  that  girl's  neck,  I  think,  with  no  alarm, 
If,  young  one,  that's  your  friend — as  it  was  Hers — 
I'll  watch  you  round  the  corner  of  my  fears. 

22 


To  a  Fool 

IF,  when  thy  body's  end  has  come, 
Thy  mind  must  find  another  home, 
Make  no  mistake  with  man  again ; 
Come  into  flesh  the  thing  thou  art 
In  all  except  thy  body's  part — 
Come  as  a  silly  ass,  and  plain. 

Such  were  my  thoughts,  their  honest  parts, 
But  Oh,  what  liars  are  kind  hearts ! 

What  smooth  false  words  such  hearts  demand 
'Thy  dreams,"  said  I,  "give  more  surprise 
Than  when  I  chased  bright  butterflies, 

And  missed  them  with  my  snapping  hand." 

24 


Strength 


T\77"HAT  lies  I  read,  that  men  of  strength 
W  Have  keen  and  penetrating  looks 
That,  flashing  here  and  flashing  there, 
Command  success — what  foolish  books  ! 
For  when  we  go  to  life  we  find 
The  men  and  dogs  that  fight  till  death 
Are  sleepy  eyed,  and  look  so  calm 
We  wonder  if  they  live  by  breath  ! 
Love,  too,  must  hold  her  saucy  tongue, 
And  turn  on  us  two  sleepy  eyes, 
To  prove  she  is  no  painted  doll, 
And  full,  like  books,  of  pretty  lies. 

25 


To  Bacchus 

I'M  none  of  those — Oh  Bacchus,  blush  ! 
That  eat  sour  pickles  with  their  beer, 
To  keep  their  brains  and  bellies  cold  ; 

Ashamed  to  let  one  laughing  tear 
Escape  their  hold. 

For  only  just  to  smell  your  hops 
Can  make  me  fat  and  laugh  all  day, 

With  appetite  for  bread  and  meat : 
111  not  despise  bruised  apples,  they 

Make  cider  sweet. 

'Tis  true  I  only  eat  to  live, 

But  how  I  live  to  drink  is  clear ; 

A  little  isle  of  meat  and  bread, 
In  one  vast  sea  of  foaming  beer, 

And  I'm  well  fed. 


26 


A  Woman's  History 

"VX7THEN  Mary  Price  was  five  years  old, 
WAnd  had  a  bird  that  died, 
She  laid  its  body  under  flowers; 

And  called  her  friends  to  pray  to  God, 
And  sing  sad  hymns  for  hours. 

When  she,  before  her  fifteenth  year, 

Was  ruined  by  a  man, 
The  neighbours  sought  him  out,  and  said — 

"You  come  along  and  marry  her, 
Or  hang  till  you  are  dead." 

When  they  had  found  the  child  he  wronged, 

And  playing  with  her  doll, 
"I'll  come  along  with  you,"  said  she — 

"But  I'll  not  marry  any  one 
Unless  my  doll's  with  me." 

With  no  more  love's  heat  in  her  than 

The  wax  upon  her  arm; 
With  no  more  love-light  in  her  eyes 

Than  in  the  glass  eyes  of  her  doll — 
Nor  wonder,  nor  surprise. 

28 


When  Mary  Price  was  thirty-five, 

And  he  was  lying  dead, 
She  wept  as  though  her  heart  would  break : 

But  neighbours  winked  to  see  her  tears 
Fall  on  a  lover's  neck. 

Now,  Mary  Price  is  seventy-five, 

And  skinning  eels  alive: 
She,  active,  strong,  and  full  of  breath, 

Has  caught  the  cat  that  stole  an  eel, 
And  beaten  it  to  death. 

29 


The  Trance 

Moon  is  beautiful  this  night : 
-L  She  is  so  clear  and  bright, 
That  should  she  smile 
On  any  sleeping  face  awhile, 
The  eyes  must  then  their  slumber  break, 
And  open,  wide  awake ; 
And  should  she  pass  a  sleeping  bird, 
Where  no  leaves  touch  or  meet, 
He'll  wake  and,  in  his  softest  voice, 
Cry  Sweet!  Sweet!  Sweet! 
The  Moon  is  beautiful,  but  who  is  this 
That  hides  his  face  from  hers ; 
That,  when  she  makes  eyes  through  the  leaves, 
Is  full  of  trembling  fears  ? 
The  night  breeds  many  a  thing  that's  strange : 
The  wretched  owl  that  in  distress 
Hoots  every  star  that  comes  to  help 
The  evening  in  her  loveliness ; 
The  half-blind  bats  that  here  and  there 
Are  floundering  in  the  twilight  air; 
The  rat,  that  shows  his  long  white  teeth 

30 


Of  hard,  unbreakable  bone — 

That  take  him  where  his  notions  go, 

Through  wood  and  lead,  cement  and  stone; 

And  cats,  that  have  the  power, 

About  the  midnight  hour, 

To  hide  their  bodies'  size 

Behind  two  small  green  eyes. 

The  night  has  these — but  who  is  this 

That  like  a  shadow  glides 

Across  the  shadows  of  the  trees, 

And  his  own  visage  hides  ? 

He  hides  his  face — we  wonder  what 

That  face  would  look  like  in  the  sun : 

Perhaps  an  ugly  bloated  thing 

That  has  more  heavy  chins  than  one ; 

Or  is  it  sharp  and  white  and  thin, 

With  a  long  nose  that  tries  to  hook 

Almost  as  sharp  a  chin — 

And  with  a  cold,  hard,  cruel  look  ? 

We  cannot  say,  but  this  is  sure — 

If  we  this  night  saw  />, 

We'd  rush  to  strike  that  monster  down, 

31 


To  drown  him  in  our  common  spit. 

*  *  * 

This  morning,  when  the  blackbird  near 

Was  frightened  from  his  thirteenth  song, 

There  was  a  lady  buried  here — 

A  lady,  beautiful  and  young. 

And  all  the  rings  she  wore  in  life, 

As  one  betrothed  and  as  a  wife, 

Were  left  upon  her  fingers  still, 

According  to  her  living  will. 

But  there  was  one  who  thought  and  thought, 

Until  one  thought  possessed  his  head ; 

And  now  he  goes,  though  full  of  fear 

Of  that  clear  moon,  to  rob  the  dead. 

I  will  not  say 

Whose  beauty  had  less  fault : 

That  lady,  where  she  lay, 

Or  that  fair  moon  outside, 

That  kissed  the  mouth  of  her  black  vault. 

Oh  God,  it  was  a  lovely  sight : 

She  was  so  beautiful  in  death, 

That,  till  her  own  looks  pitied  her, 

No  mortal  could  with  living  breath. 

But  what  cared  he  for  her  fair  face 


32 


When,  by  his  lamp,  in  that  dark  place, 

He  saw  the  jewels  there, 

Shaking  with  life,  and  greedy,  where 

They  nibbled  at  the  small,  gold  bands 

On  her  cold,  lifeless  hands : 

But  though  he  turns  those  rings  around, 

They  make  no  downward  move,  when  pulled, 

To  come  from  her  white  hand  to  his — 

He'll  cut  her  fingers  off  for  gold  ! 

But  ah,  no  sooner  had  he  cut 

One  finger  with  his  knife, 

Than  her  white  flesh,  so  firm  and  smooth, 

Rippled  with  sudden  life! 

Now  if  a  cobweb  touched  his  face, 

This  moment,  in  that  haunted  place, 

He  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground, 

Caught  in  a  net  of  steel,  and  bound ; 

A  little  leaf,  dropped  on  his  head, 

Would  be  a  bolt  to  strike  him  dead  : 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady  sigh, 

And  saw  her  body  rising  there, 

A  second  fear  released  the  first, 

From  stupor  into  active  fear; 

33 


And  when  outside  that  vault  again, 

With  space  to  use  his  trembling  knees, 

He  ran  and  ran — nor  thought  of  light, 

Or  shadows  under  trees. 

The  first  thoughts  of  that  lady 

Were  delicate  and  pure : 

She  looked  to  see  if  her  fair  body 

Was  covered  well  and  sure ; 

Her  second  thoughts  were  home  and  love- 

And  quickly  did  that  lady  move. 

Home  to  her  husband,  where  that  man, 

In  misery  full  and  deep, 

Kneels  at  an  empty  chair  and  sobs ; 

To  her  two  little  ones  that  sleep — 

They  are  so  small  in  size 

That  their  sweet  tender  mouths  are  still 

No  bigger  than  their  wondering  eyes. 

What  joy,  and  what  astonishment 

For  him,  who  suffers  for  her  sake ! 

But  the  little  ones  will  certainly 

Expect  their  mother  when  they  wake. 

34 


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